


Where The Heart Is

by practice_recklessly



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen, One Shot, not smut, reuniting characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-08-14 22:59:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8032354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/practice_recklessly/pseuds/practice_recklessly
Summary: Having lost his village and with the Brotherhood going North without him, Sandor Clegane abides his time wondering where to go when a stranger attacks in a familiar fashion. (Canon compliant to the TV series)





	Where The Heart Is

Small flecks of wood spiralling onto themselves fall from a wood piece in a carver's hand. The man had large, scarred hands and was whittling a small piece of light colored wood. His blade was small and not necessarily for carving but the metal was sharp and caressed the wood as if it were a soft piece of cheese. Paper thin flakes rained by his feet as he sat and carved. It was not an expert shave but he managed to smooth the rounded oval in his hand, he flattened his blade and created a fan on one end then curved up the opposite side and made another round shape, edged off a peak. He was making a sitting bird, crude in details for now but there was no mistake in its construction.

The sun was streaming through the leaves and created a dancing pattern over the forest floor, the carver was sitting on a low boulder with his foot up on a smaller rock. He was broad chested, large armed, his legs long and muscled like a bull. He was wearing simple clothes, a ragged cloak to which he had his hood up. Sandor Clegane had been letting the day pass as he sat and created, his focus only what was in his hands. It had been a few days since he last saw Beric Dondarrion and the Brotherhood Without Banners. The disgraced knight told Sandor of their great pilgrimage North to face the Others. Sandor passed, staying around the Riverlands seemed a better plan and warmer. With his sept long slain and the slayers executed, he found his leisure in his newly acquired freedom. He'd never really indulged himself in the manners of craft but saw the need for it now, a great answer to boredom. He examined his hands, they were scarred heavily, more so than any swordsman living. Hands that gripped a Valyrian steel sword, hands that once killed and saved by command from high lords and ladies. The scars made it very difficult to stretch out his hands without feeling the pull in his skin, it was not painful but it did feel strange. They kept his hands loosely crumpled, never all the way closed.

The sun was nearing its final leg of the day, the mid afternoon. Already thinking of setting a fire and finding dinner, Sandor sighed for all he wanted to do was finish this little bird. A rustling came from above, the leaves turning yellow and orange like the citrus fruits of summer. The wind was picking up and making music through the falling panels of colors. Flecks like the wood at his feet, the wind blew them away down the valley. _Here is as good as any._ Sandor slid his knife into his boot holster and the unfinished bird into his bag. He then walked around looking for signs of life, he found a short patch of greenery, it was up his mid calf with distinct tunnelling. Sandor unwound twine he had saved that was wrapped around his leather wristlet. He created circle traps with pull through knots, carefully laying them through the tunnels in the thicket. Sandor walked back behind a large fern and kneeled down, carefully watching.

The forest was less noisy now, not from the wind's music but of people. Since the War of the Five Kings and the countless civil battles between the any man and the Iron born, it would seem nature has found time to grow back into the crevasses of man's destruction. Over grown farms that were long abandoned, skeletons and rags where a rotting corpse once laid, stone work decaying nearer the shore line by the Iron Isles. A kind of desolation of people being self corralled into larger towns and cities. Some smart enough to leave South before the winter really kicks at their back doors. Sandor already knew the air was getting cooler the longer he stayed but if he departed towards the South, he would surely meet his end by the King and the bounty on his head or from Gregor's men who still roaming around Casterly Rock. His ticket would be going across the sea, he could as he still had a sack of coin. Just enough for entry to a boat, his muscles and stern demeanour could pay for the rest. He could stay on the boat and always be on the move or join a sell sword company, Golden or the Second Sons. Maybe even see the damned dragons that fly and haunt the Slaver's Bay. Marine life and the other continent seemed so reachable and yet he felt the ties of Westeros, the hands of the past asking him to stay, to change. He could change something here, something he long regretted. How could he start that battle when he had fallen so far down the cliff, who would remember this dog when he barely recognized himself most days. He spoke the words of the Septon Ray, he remembered him more than he like. He was kneeling already, waiting for dinner but he took a moment to pray. _But to who?_ Who would be the god he thought more logical now, maybe the Mother. _Maybe I need mercy._ He clasped his hands over his knee and closed his eyes, he thought of the people who he could've shown mercy. The butcher's boy, maybe and if the younger Stark daughter were here would he have just been truthful after the Red Wedding. He could've just taken her to the damn city of Braavos like she wanted.

A scuttle broke his concentration and in Sandor's view was a small grey and white rabbit emerging from the hole at the base of the tall trees ahead of him. It sniffed the air and ran through the thicket, he heard a distinct yelp and a thumping noise. Sandor jumped up and briskly walked over to the rabbit. He held it in his hands and snapped it's feeble neck. He grabbed it by the hind legs he walked back to that familiar boulder he sat on. He would need to build a spit.

Sandor raked the ground with his foot to expose the soil. He quickly looked around and found a few pieces of dry wood, even a fallen tree made for great kindling, peeling some dry bark from the trunk. He built a small tent of sticks and surrounded them with some loose rocks that were near the boulder he sat previous. As he pulled the flint rocks from his pocket, he thought he felt eyes on the back of his head. Turning, he saw nothing, just the same landscape that was there before. Sandor shook off the feeling and proceeded back to striking the rocks, creating tiny fire filled sparks into the kindling. As the kindling set a blaze, the presence of life was still in his mind, it was a feeling that surrounded him like a layer of grease. Sandor gripped his axe that was beside the growing fire. He stood and turned to see a small hooded figure. At first, he thought it a moving tree. A wispy little tree but saw that it grew in his vision, it was running at him. The cloak the little man was wearing peeled open and revealed a slender sword, coming straight for his gut.

Sandor gulped and went wide eyed, he parried with the flat of the axe. The sword tinged loudly and nearly looked as if it would snap like a twig. It was steady because the hand that held it was more so, the sword swiped up and Sandor used his massive arms and flat palmed pushed the assailant with ease. After all, the man barely made it past his chest. The slender swordsman tumbled to the ground, his hood falling revealing a young boy with a upturned nose, freckles, and medium length hair like a girls. Sandor tried to kick the man but he rolled and back sprung up to his feet. He stared with fierce eyes, they were grey and clear as rain. Sandor stared back, feeling a pang jolt through his heart down to his gut. Those eyes, he knew those eyes.

It was a long journey or at least to Sandor, it felt long. Many days arguing, fighting, even having to be physical. Finding any way to communicate, avenging people for her even though it was her who got them in a mess. They were close when they thought they shouldn't be. He was no father or brother but something to her just as she was no sister and no daughter to him. He listened to her actions and found a bleak way to speak to her, hoping she would listen and learn. He was so bitter then and what he didn't know was she was too. They had travelled through the Riverlands, over the Green Fork, hell and back from the Red Wedding, and through the men that sought to kill him and kidnap her. Or worse. But it was food that had them at evens, rumbling tummies, scouring the valleys for anything to eat. She had no skill at trapping but could shoot a deer at twenty yards easily. Back then she could've done it but with what bow and what deer. The land pillaged of anything to eat, that's what war does.

Sandor examined the boy, he seemed unnatural. He was huffing as he ran and swung his sword again. Sandor parried, let the slash glance off the axe head. This kept up for a few more swings, the boy too short and small to make any dents on Sandor's defence. He watched as he cradled his sword, ringing it around his wrists, twirling it in a cocky manner. He had seen this before, by the river, they were fighting again by the end of it. She tried to stab him, there the same place. Sandor was confused but continued to parry and dodge all the little swings. The sword was so thin he thought a good blow with his axe could bend and break it but he kept up the dance. The boy was determined to hit him.

_The sword!_ It was the same sword. What did she call it? Was it... Needle. He scowled at people who named their swords, called them cunts. He told her when he also told her not to go in that tavern. He didn't name any of his weapons but she had one. How did this boy get it. Why was he attacking him anyway, was it for the food? The fire? Very peculiar. Sandor would have taken pity on the boy knowing full well he was no threat. Lashing his little blade at Sandor, never making a mark. He backed off and the boy came running in, the same move as before. Sandor blocked the same way again but this time he back handed slapped the boy so hard he flipped and fell to the ground.

It was the same fight. This was the same girl. All he had to do was take a chance. He wasn't good at chances, he risked in battle but this was different. The boy's hair was covering his face, peering through his messy hair was a blazing bright grey eye. Sandor looking straight at him, saw him changing. It was now or never and Sandor took a stab at the memory.

"Were you not listening the first time, She-wolf?" Sandor yelled harshly, becoming more sure of himself and his deduction.

The boy was unmoving, just kept staring. Staring the same way Arya did the day at the river, staring just like she did in the tavern when he had slain Gregor's men. Her stare was constant and could shake a man's soul. It was loaded and always terrifying even when she was terrified. Grey eyes, cold or warm depending on the one who would be felled by her gaze.

The boy was no longer a boy but a girl, Sandor spoke once again in the same bounding and authoritative tone, "This is where the heart is."

He aggressively pointed exactly where his heart was on his chest. Sandor's face changed from a confusion to a frown. He stared back into the abyss that was the boy's eyes now changing into a girls. She stood, straightening her cloak and pushing her hair aside. She was a bit taller, stronger, her face had filled out a bit more but she was still young. Her face was dirty and no longer as harsh as it once was. She was frowning too. Sandor wasn't sure why she attacked him, maybe it was for the time wasted trying to pawn her off to any relative of hers. He let the memories flow in his mind, realizing maybe it wasn't so bad to be in any company rather than always alone.

"Am I still on your bloody list." Sandor spoke less harsh, "Or was leaving me to die good enough for you."

Her lips were pursed, she hadn't said or done anything. Needle loosely lay in her hand, the tip just barely raised above the ground. She would need a new sword soon, one that would compliment her height. Her fighting style. Sandor watched as she moved from angry to sadness, her eyes watering.

"Yeah," she spoke quietly, "I guess it will have to be."

"You going North?" Sandor asked her, letting his guard down. Dropping his axe to his side.

"Don't know yet." she replied, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. Sandor looked away as she did.

He turned around and started back to the camp fire, he looked back at the changed Arya. She looked at him with softer eyes, he rasped, "Well are you coming or not?"

She smiled brightly and caught up to Sandor. She sheathed her sword and looked at him, "I wasn't sure you'd recognize me."

Sandor looked down on her, still so short. He snorted, "It was easy." he picked up the pace and sat by the fire.

Arya sat on the other side of the flames. He picked up the rabbit and started skinning around the head and down the belly. She looked around and found long branches for a spit, she pulled a dagger from her boot and started sharpening the ends for the rabbit. In silence, they worked together to pull the rabbit on to the spit and start cooking dinner. Arya pulled her cloak and bag off and went looking for greens and roots. Sandor pulled out his unfinished carving and started away at the wood bird. After an hour, she returned with the bottom of her shirt upturned with raspberries. She found a few bushes and harvested all she could find. There was also a few asparagus shoots she found growing tall along the way.

Like an old road well traversed, a favored pair of shoes, they ran back into the odd groove in their relationship of survival. Soon night emerged, the rabbit picked over, the fruit all eaten. Sandor was etching into the bird, fine lines for the wings and feathers, notches between the tail feathers. He turned the carving around and cut divots for the eyes, small nicks for the bird's nose. The bird was simple but well crafted, had he any paint he could fill in the lines with black and the feathers a brilliant red. The eyes would be blue, they should be blue. His eyes glazed over for a moment, thinking about the blue waters of the ocean that surrounded the capital. He often stared longingly off the them but not past the horizon but down to where the rose gardens were, lords and ladies walking around the Red Keep. The way hair sways behind high born girls, just a mesmerizing as the ocean waves. He was hypnotized by the auburn locks of the other Stark daughter. Sandor took a deep breath as he turned the wooden bird around. As he examined his work for a quick moment, he hadn't realized Arya was watching him. She gave him a look of approval, Sandor's mouth went flat as did his brow. He was not looking for such a thing.

They lay on either side of the fire, the same sides as when they travelled years ago. Sandor looked up and felt a bit lighter, probably relieved the young Stark daughter lived even after he could not protect her. He thought it a bit off though, not sure what it was. He thought back to a similar night they had slept under the stars. It was early in their journey when they had energy and will to argue all day. She was very talkative, talking about the world, calling him the worst shit in the seven kingdoms, it was a great jab he admitted. Then it dawned on him.

"You're list." Sandor spoke, "Why aren't you speaking your list?"

Arya turned her head up, she was staring at the fire, "I don't have to repeat it anymore. I know them." she shifted to her back and asked him a question, "How did you know it was me just before?"

_Should I tell her true?_ He shifted for a moment, a bit uncomfortable with his observation. He's never been asked this kind of question before and he realized it was a bit embarrassing he could remember many eyes. Her eyes, his brothers, the Queen and her children, if they all were here and disfigured he could name them truly. It's a feature he notices often as many don't like to stare at Sandor's burned face very often. It meant they were trying not to be afraid. _Tell her true._

"Eyes." Sandor said with slumber on his tongue, "You're eyes are still the same. You're still angry the same way you were before."

Arya let out a quiet guffaw, she turned to her side with her back facing Sandor and muttered under her breath, "Damn."

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you all enjoyed this. I had this idea kicking around in my head for a while, I even put down a few thumbnails as a short 4 page comic but I haven't finished it yet. Since I was dragging my heels with it, I figured I could write it faster than I could draw it.
> 
> I also wanted to write and edit this within a day and I have. If there are any typos, please let me know and please share any comments you might have about the story. I kind of what them to reunite and turn back into the best buddy comedy routine in Westeros.
> 
> Not gonna lie, kind of just want to make a really boring fic about Sandor building a house.


End file.
